“Anton, is this your American friend?”
“This is him, Marie. Marie Thenaud, may I introduce you to Asher Sinclair.”
She turned to me and took my hand in hers. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Asher,” she purred, her voice heavy with a French accent, but her English was flawless. “My friend, Anton, told me you were handsome—but you are, in truth, even more handsome than I could have imagined. May I sit with you and have a drink?”
I was a bit taken aback with how brazen she was. It wasn’t what she said as much as her body language and tone of voice. Granted, in my experience, French women rarely had any apprehensions with being forward and, despite how interested she seemed in me and how incredibly attractive she was, I looked at her sitting across from me and I simply wasn’t interested.
I smiled as it dawned on me: there was only one woman I was interested in and she was back in California hell bent on giving me the cold shoulder.
I didn’t want to be rude to Marie or Anton by telling her to go elsewhere, so I shifted over on the plush sofa and made space for her. Plenty of space.
“Please, sit down, Marie,” I offered. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” she said with a wink and a smile.
Her companions then showed up, carrying a number of cocktails, one of which they handed to Marie. Our waiter arrived, as well, bearing fresh tumblers of whiskey on the rocks for myself and Anton. The women sat down, one on either side of Anton, and he draped an arm over each of their barely-covered shoulders.
“Now the party is about to get started!” he said with a wicked grin.
He raised his glass, and the ladies all did the same. Reluctantly, I followed suit.
“To Asher Sinclair, my good friend and business associate!” he roared. Then, in one gulp, he drained his glass.
“Whoa, thanks, Anton, but that's not how a fine whiskey should be enjoyed! You know that as much as I do,” I declared.
“I don't care!” he shouted. “Let's get drunk! Party! Have some fun!”
The women next to him giggled and sipped at their cocktails.
“Come on, Asher,” he said, “why are you drinking so slowly? Are you a man or a boy?”
“Anton, remember what we said? I don't want to have a hangover—”
“I said, are you a man, or are you a boy?”
I shook my head and downed my whiskey—damned peer pressure. There didn't seem to be any point in resisting. Anton snapped his fingers and called the waiter over again. He shot off a rapid-fire order in French, and the waiter hurried off once more. In the meantime, Marie tried to make small talk with me while Anton flirted brazenly with the other two women.
After a few minutes, the waiter returned carrying a tray with two fresh whiskeys and an array of shots.
“Oh no, Anton. Come on, I did not agree to this.”
“It is too late, Asher, my friend!” he said with a laugh. “Come now! The ladies are going to drink their shots, yes, ladies?”
They all voiced their approval and giggled.
“You see, Asher! It is only you who is being, what is the word? Ah, yes, boring! Come, it is Friday night in Paris! Have some fun, my friend, have some fun!”
“All right, all right,” I sighed. The more I drank, the harder it was to resist.
We downed the shots, and before long, I was starting to feel light-headed.
“I want to dance,” Marie announced. “Come, let's go to the dancefloor!”
The other ladies also seemed eager to dance, as did Anton. He stood and beckoned to me.
“Come on, Asher! We cannot let the ladies down. It would be very rude!”
I heaved myself up off the sofa, feeling weary and decidedly unenthusiastic. Marie, however, looped her arm through mine and all but dragged me onto the dancefloo